Some shadows are obedient. Mine… is not. At precisely 2:17 every afternoon, it detaches with a casual little pop, like a balloon slipping its knot. I don’t notice at first—why would I?—until I realize my coffee cup is empty, my laptop has shifted two inches to the left, and my shadow is nowhere to be seen.
It strolls around, doing whatever it wants. Yesterday, it tried to flirt with a cat across the street. The cat didn’t respond. The day before that, it swiped a crumpled lottery ticket from a stranger’s pocket and left it on my keyboard like some small, shadowy gift. I checked the numbers. I didn’t win. Of course I didn’t.
At parties, it’s a menace. It sneaks up behind people and whispers sarcastic comments I’d never dare say out loud. “Oh yes, tell them about your artisanal kombucha again. They love that story,” it hissed last weekend. People laughed; I squirmed.
Sometimes I chase it. Sometimes I plead. “Come back! You have responsibilities!” It floats just out of reach, as if mocking the very concept of responsibility. And then, right before sunset, like a teenager reluctantly returning home, it slinks back. Slightly damp from wherever it went. Probably with an odd new smell.
It has friends, I suspect. Shadows gossip. My neighbor’s shadow waved at mine once, and my shadow winked back. I was humiliated, though I wasn’t sure why.
Honestly? I’m starting to enjoy it. There’s a thrill in leaving my shoes in the kitchen and finding my shadow wearing one of them three hours later. Or seeing it dance in the rain while I stay dry, holding my coffee, looking like an idiot, but silently applauding its commitment.
And so it goes. Life is better, somehow, with a rogue half of yourself roaming the streets, snitching things, making commentary, occasionally embarrassing you in front of strangers. I may not be able to control it—but the world is undeniably funnier for its little adventures.
More? Laugh Like Sun.